But good Sir John did not understand all this, and he took it into his head that Tom was drowned.  When they looked into the empty pockets of his shell, and found no jewels there, nor money—­nothing but three marbles, and a brass button with a string to it—­then Sir John did something as like crying as ever he did in his life, and blamed himself more bitterly than he need have done.  So he cried, and the groom-boy cried, and the huntsman cried, and the dame cried, and the little girl cried, and the dairymaid cried, and the old nurse cried (for it was somewhat her fault), and my lady cried, for though people have wigs, that is no reason why they should not have hearts; but the keeper did not cry, though he had been so good-natured to Tom the morning before; for he was so dried up with running after poachers, that you could no more get tears out of him than milk out of leather; and Grimes did not cry, for Sir John gave him ten pounds, and he drank it all in a week.

Sir John sent, far and wide, to find Tom’s father and mother; but he might have looked till Doomsday for them, for one was dead, and the other was in Botany Bay. [Footnote:  Botany Bay was originally the name of a settlement established in New South Wales, in Eastern Australia, for the reception of criminals from England.  Later, the name came to be applied to any distant colony to which criminals were transported.] And the little girl would not play with her dolls for a whole week, and never forgot poor little Tom.  And soon my lady put a pretty little tombstone over Tom’s shell in the little churchyard in Vendale.

And the dame decked it with garlands every Sunday, till she grew so old that she could not stir abroad; then the little children decked it for her.  And always she sang an old, old song, as she sat spinning what she called her wedding dress.  The children could not understand it, but they liked it none the less for that; for it was very sweet and very sad; and that was enough for them.  And these are the words of it:—­

“When all the world is young, lad,
   And all the trees are green;
 And every goose a swan, lad,
   And every lass a queen;
 Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
   And round the world away;
 Young blood must have its course, lad,
   And every dog his day.

“When all the world is old, lad,
   And all the trees are brown;
 And all the sport is stale, lad,
   And all the wheels run down;
 Creep home, and take your place there,
   The spent and maimed among;
 God grant you find one face there,
   You loved when all was young.”

[Illustration.]

Those are the words, but they are only the body of it; the soul of the song was the dear old woman’s sweet face, and sweet voice, and the sweet old air to which she sang; and that, alas! one cannot put on paper.  And at last she grew so stiff and lame, that the angels were forced to carry her; and they helped her on with her wedding dress, and carried her up over Harthover Fells, and a long way beyond that too:  and there was a new schoolmistress in Vendale.